Simple Gifts
by Lil black dog
Summary: Sometimes it's the simple gifts in life that mean the most. Happy holidays everyone! :D


A/N: Sometimes it's the simple gifts in life that mean the most. Peter Kirk/Winona Kirk. A few days late, but December is a notoriously busy month for me. Happy holidays everyone! :D

**Simple Gifts**

She watched him as he pushed his food around the plate, not really eating, and it broke her heart. He was hurting, as was she, but she wasn't sure how to help him. The professionals had done their bit and pronounced him whole, but he was so young, and had already gone through more than most adults four times his age. During the best of times it was difficult for him she knew, but this time of year would intensify and focus that pain into a tight beam that bored a jagged hole through his already wounded soul. She was desperate to heal that wound.

"How was school today?" she began lightly, looking for a way in.

The small shoulders rolled into a shrug, the eyes never leaving his plate. "It was okay," he lied. She could tell he didn't want to upset her. His friends had probably talked excitedly about their holiday plans; what they had bought for various members of their families. Didn't realize that even if they hadn't meant to, they had hurt him with their words. With the exception of his absent uncle, she was all the family he had left. That thought left her bereft, aching for him. One so young shouldn't have to deal with such terrible losses, all happening within just shy of seven months. He had lost his grandfather—a security officer in Starfleet, both brothers in a catastrophic maglev train accident, and his parents to the neural parasites on Deneva. The single-celled organisms had infected him as well, and it was only thanks to the skill, dedication and ingenuity of his uncle's crew—James Kirk was the captain of a starship—that he and the vast majority of the population on Deneva had survived. It was a lot to bear, for anyone, but most ten-year-olds simply didn't possess the emotional tools necessary to claw their way out of such a desolate pit of despair.

"You know, you still haven't told me what you want for Christmas," she remarked casually, blowing on a steaming forkful of homemade lasagna.

He deigned not to answer, instead chewing on a piece of buttered bread.

She knew what he really wanted, and couldn't give it to him.

No one could.

He was back to pushing the food around.

She put down her fork, trying to catch his eye. "You miss them. It's okay to feel that way. I miss them, too," she confessed, feeling a bottomless abyss open in her chest.

"Look, can I be excused?" he asked curtly, still avoiding her gaze, and her unasked question.

"Sure," she answered, tasting the bitterness of failure, and watched as he slipped silently from the table, disappearing up the wooden staircase.

_He's not really mad at me,_ she reminded herself. _He can't deal with it, and he's lashing out at the only person available to him_. She rose to her feet, stubbornly swiping at her cheek before she began clearing the table. _I'll find a way to get him through this._ As she stood over the sink and washed the dinner dishes, a plan was already taking shape…

oooOOOooo

He flopped face-down onto his bed and buried his head into his pillow. He couldn't stop the images flashing before his eyes: his parents, kissing under a sprig of mistletoe as he and his two older brothers made faces, groaning loudly in mock-disgust. Paper flying everywhere as he and his siblings tore into their gifts. Impossibly impatient, there was no pretense of the three of them taking turns, each slowly opening a gift so the others in the family could see.

He remembered the wonderful smells coming from the kitchen as his mother made Christmas dinner, the laughter and stories his family shared as they partook of the meal. The fun he and his brothers had—and the mess they made—decorating a batch of sugar cookies still warm from the oven. The goodwill they experienced as the three of them delivered the sweet treats to friends, neighbors and complete strangers living in their town—a truly magnanimous gesture meant to teach them the personal satisfaction to be gained through selfless acts of kindness and giving back to the community.

But most of all he remembered that sense of belonging, how safe and secure he felt, nestled in the love of his immediate family.

That was something he'd never experience again.

He rolled onto his back, silent sobs rocking him, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. The ache of missing them was almost too much to bear.

Suddenly, the PADD on his bedside table pinged, alerting him that a message had come in. He swung his feet to the floor, grabbing the sleek device and swiping a finger across it, activating the screen. The message was from his grandmother: _Grab your coat and meet me in the barn in ten minutes. It's high time I passed on a Kirk holiday tradition to you_, it said simply.

The fact that she had sent him a message via this medium instead of merely poking her head into his room and talking to him face-to-face was startling in itself. She was no huge fan of technology, casting most modern conveniences aside, like PADD's, food synthesizers, electronic books and even a sonic dishwasher, preferring instead to use the old "soap and water" method. She often had a fondness for doing things "the old-fashioned way," much to his chagrin. He knew sending her his regrets couched in a thinly-veiled white lie like "he wasn't feeling good," "was doing homework," or "was tired and had already changed for bed," was useless. Odds were she had sent him the note and headed for the barn, leaving the PADD conveniently behind.

Climbing to his feet, Peter heaved a sigh and trudged down the stairs, retrieved his coat from the hall closet. Shrugging it on, he stomped out into the tempestuous Iowa night. When he arrived at the barn thickly-falling snow already covered his hair like a soft, fluffy helmet. Winona was hitching one of the horses to an old-fashioned wooden sleigh.

"Dontcha think it's kinda cold to be going for a ride?" he asked cynically, a slight hint of adults-are-soooo-stupid inflected in that question despite his best efforts to curtail it.

"Nonsense," she answered, grinning widely. "Choosing a Christmas tree in the snow is the best. And besides, you wouldn't be so cold if you put on your hat and gloves," she finished sagely. She reached out to brush the snow from his hair.

He started to tug the items in question from his coat pockets when her words finally sank in. "Huh? You mean we're gonna cut down a _live _tree and put it in the _house_?" In the six or so years he had conscious memories of celebrating the holiday with his family, they had never had a live tree, always opting instead for a prefab one. Made from recycled plasticine, they were durable and reusable, and came complete with a replaceable canister that emitted fresh pine scent and small LED lights that sprouted from the branches like tiny, colored pine cones. Part of that was due to the conservation effort mandate on Deneva. Live trees were permissible, but came with a steep luxury tax which kept most families from indulging in that Earth custom. The colony had been thriving for close to thirty years thanks to the wisdom of its ruling council which wisely chose to preserve those natural resources they could.

"Unless you've got a better idea," she replied sweetly, cinching the last strap tight about the horse's belly. After a final tug on the rigging she climbed onto the seat and patted the space next to her.

Peter responded sullenly to the tacit invitation, clambering up the side of the wooden monstrosity and plopping himself onto the seat beside her. "Mom and Dad never had a live tree," he informed her quietly as Winona clicked her tongue and snapped the reins over the muscular back of their steed. "We weren't allowed to."

With a lurch they were off, gliding effortlessly over the pristine sea of white powder, the snow crunching and crackling as it was compressed beneath the runners.

"Really? That's odd. We always had one when my boys were home, and the three of us—four, if your grandfather was lucky enough to get leave at the holidays—would always go out on a cold, blustery night like this one to choose it."

The adults-are-soooo-stupid look was back. "Wouldn't it have been easier to pick one during the day?" Peter asked. Why was it that grownups had no common sense at all?

"Maybe, but you see a tree's true character at night, when it's not stretching its limbs toward the warmth of the sun, its boughs heavy with snow. It gives you an idea as to how it will stand up to being decked out with all the trappings of the season."

Peter had no answer for that. Instead he wrapped his arms tightly about himself in an effort to ward off the encroaching chill. He supposed this could be fun if he didn't freeze to death first. Out of the corner of his eye he glanced at his grandmother. She was certainly in her element, seemingly unaffected by the bracing bite of the arctic night air or the incessant parade of swirling snow. Evidently she sensed his discomfort though. Retrieving a thick wool blanket from the belly of the sleigh behind her she draped it about his shoulders with one hand, the other holding tightly to the reins. In spite of himself, Peter nestled himself securely in its warmth.

They proceeded on in silence, only the steady clap-trap of the horse's feet cutting through the muffled shroud of tranquility, the fat, white flakes falling steadily and heavily. Much to his surprise he found he was actually enjoying the outing. There was something to be said for the quiet beauty of the landscape encased in an unspoiled layer of newly-fallen snow. The scene before him seemed to be encrusted with millions of tiny gemstones, the weak light of the moon refracting in a dazzling display from infinite crystalline facets.

The horse appeared to be enjoying itself as well, tossing its head and whickering with delight, huge clouds of steam belching forth in intermittent puffs from flared nostrils as if fueled by the bellows for an ancient blacksmith's fire.

Inexplicably, the anger tore at him again, dragging him down into its dark depths once more. "How on earth do you expect to find one in these conditions?" he demanded skeptically, squinting into the furtive shadows cast by the trees that ringed the fallow field they were traversing.

Her smug grin was back. "I must confess," she told him in a conspiratorial whisper, "I scouted out several candidates earlier today while you were at school. I'll let you have the honor of deciding which of those is best."

_The first one we happen upon_, he thought darkly, stamping his feet and blowing into his clasped hands as a way to ward off the sinister fingers of cold which wriggled into his jacket and heavy boots. In response to his overt display of annoyance, she wrapped an arm about his shoulders, pressed him to her side.

He didn't have the heart to refuse her silent request; hated to admit to himself that he did find it comforting. Grudgingly he settled himself against her, grateful for the warmth, both physical and emotional.

She soon reined in the horse next to what to him seemed to be an indiscriminate stretch of woods. "There's a fine grove of fir trees about thirty meters in," she said. She hopped down and retrieved something else from the back of the sleigh.

He eyed the new item with disdain. "Really, Grandma? I've only ever seen the likes of one of those in a museum. Can't we use a laser saw?"

"Nope, sorry." Grasping the end she bent the thin, flexible tapered metal blade and quickly released it. It snapped back into position, quivering, and emitted a hum that was quite unexpected. "You see, this is part of the tradition. This 'museum piece' belonged to your great grandfather Cletus Kirk, who got it from _his_ grandfather. Generations of Kirks have used this same metal saw to cut down their Christmas tree." She winked at him. "Besides, we'll generate tons of body heat while using it. I guarantee you won't be cold any more by the time we're done." Grasping his small, mittened hand, she set off for the distant copse of trees.

oooOOOooo

By the time they returned to the house they were both breathless and giddy. Peter had selected the biggest tree there, foregoing her suggestions on the grounds that the ones she had picked were simply too small. With infinite patience she had tried to explain that they always seemed smaller in their native environment, and that his pick would dwarf their living room, but he would have none of it. He even plucked the twentieth-century antique tool from her hand and began the process of cutting the tree, the snow covering him now commingled with sawdust, sap and a healthy dusting of pine needles.

She stepped back to watch, satisfied that he was now focused on something besides his grief. It took him a good ten minutes, but finally the tree toppled over with a resounding thud. He only protested half-heartedly when she explained that they wouldn't be using an anti-grav device, but old-fashioned elbow grease to haul their prize to the waiting sleigh. It was all the two of them could do to drag it through the inches-deep snow and wrest it over the side of the aft compartment.

On the return trip they were singing carols at the top of their lungs, sending what nocturnal animals had ventured out into the storm scurrying for cover.

Once back at the house, he realized she had been right. That she hadn't insisted on a smaller tree was definitely to her credit, and done for his sake he suspected. Too large at the base to fit through the front door, she assured him that as long as they positioned the tree horizontally and went bottom first, the boughs would bend and give, finally allowing their evergreen colossus to slip through the doorjamb. With her heaving and him pushing with all the strength his ten-year-old frame could muster, both eventually wound up on their backsides, she inside, he on the porch, their laughter carried aloft along with the cyclonic eddies of quiescently driven snow into the moonlit, silent night.

Between the two of them they maneuvered the behemoth into the waiting stand—one that automatically sized itself to the trunk, straightening and securing the tree with the touch of a button.

They stepped back to admire its placement in the room before Winona fished several strings of old-fashioned LED lights from a box. She and Peter stood on opposite sides and proceeded to wrap the tree, passing the strings to each other and burying them deep within the boughs, close to the trunk.

"Grandma, there's a bird's nest in here," Peter announced while they were still working on the top third of the tree. "Should I pull it out?"

"No!" she admonished immediately. "Trees with a nest in them are supposed to bring good luck for the coming year. Let it be."

Once they were done with the lights she began unpacking ornaments, handing them to her grandson for him to place on the tree. After he had about half of the limbs decorated she excused herself. "You work on that. I'll go make us some hot chocolate." By the time she returned with two steaming, oversized mugs he was nearly done. She paused, observing him silently from the doorway as he carefully scrutinized his handiwork, searching for the perfect spots to hang the last few baubles.

"It looks great," she remarked, slipping into the room and setting the mugs on the coffee table. "It just needs one more thing."

"What's that?" he asked, his face slightly crestfallen. Apparently he thought it was perfect just the way it was.

"I have one more box of ornaments in the attic. Would you fetch them for me?" He nodded his head. "They're in a small, wicker basket to the left of the trap door. You can't miss it."

He scampered off and she soon heard the telltale creaking as he pulled down the hinged wooden hatch in the hall ceiling and unfolded the ladder. There was a clunk as the bottom edges hit the floor, a slight groan as the wood protested under the weight of his small form ascending into the breach. Muffled squeaks emanated from the ceiling above her as he shuffled around in search of his quarry.

Several minutes later he was back, his prize nestled securely under an arm. "Is this the right one?" he asked, holding the basket out for her to inspect.

"Yep, you got it. These are by far my favorites, and no tree is complete without them." She reached for the basket and once again patted the seat beside her. Peter slid into it and retrieving his mug from the table, took a long sip.

She flipped open the lid and began removing the items one by one, laying them out on the table before her. Soon it was covered with a hodgepodge of homely, hand-made ornaments. She watched as Peter's mouth fell open.

"These are your favorites? Why on earth is that?"

"Because these are the decorations my boys made for me over the years, another quirky Kirk tradition." His look of bewilderment as he surveyed the assortment of eclectic items before him, most not festive or keeping with the spirit of the holiday in the least, bordered on the painful. "I'll bet even you can guess which ones were made by your dad and which by your Uncle Jim."

The look shifted into one of concentration. She had presented him with a challenge, and knew from experience that no boy his age could refuse, especially if he had Kirk blood coursing through his veins.

He quickly began sorting them into two piles: the yellow and green ear of corn fashioned out of pipe-cleaners, the prairie dog made from different sizes of small brown pom-poms glued together, and the carved wooden horse among others to the right, and the small drawing of the moon, complete with craters, the clay model of Saturn and a tangled mass of brightly-colored wire he suspected was meant to represent a supernova, or perhaps a nebula, with the other celestial bodies to the left. "These are Dad's," he said, pointing to the pile of earthbound objects, "and these are Uncle Jim's." He flashed her a self-satisfied grin.

"You're absolutely right. Your father always showed more of an interest in things he could see outside his front door, while your Uncle Jim's imagination and wanderlust always carried him light-years away from here. But this piece is my absolute favorite," she said, drawing the final item from the basket and placing it in her grandson's hands.

He recognized the object at once. "It's Captain Archer's _Enterprise_," he announced without hesitation, turning the small balsa wood artifact over and over in his hands. "Uncle Jim's," he declared with certainty. "Why is this one your favorite?" he wanted to know.

She took the small, wooden ship from him, willing her voice to be steady. "Your Uncle Jim made this for me when he was thirteen. You know what happened to him when he was thirteen, right?"

Peter nodded solemnly. Even on Deneva, twenty years after the fact, all Federation school children learned of the blight that had destroyed the vast majority of the food supply on Tarsus IV, and the governor's unique solution to keeping the 8,000 plus colonists alive until relief ships arrived. Governor Kodos had summarily executed half of the population, including Peter's Great Aunt Martha and her daughter Emma. Young Jimmy had been visiting them for the summer, and while he had avoided execution, he had seen more than his share of death as he hid from government troops with a ragtag group of refugees, awaiting rescue by Federation forces. It was not a typical topic for discussion, but Peter's father had mentioned it when he found out his son was studying that particular moment in Federation history in school.

"Your grandfather and I thought Jimmy might have been permanently scarred by what he experienced on Tarsus IV; that it had made space a dark and dangerous place he would choose not to revisit despite his fascination with the cosmos during the formative years of his childhood.

"Your uncle had a hard time talking about what happened to him on Tarsus IV—at least to us. I think in his own way he was trying to protect us; he didn't want to worry us unnecessarily. He knew he'd be able to overcome it and move on, and this was his roundabout way of telling us that he'd be fine. That he still saw space as somewhere novel and exciting, and he'd get there someday, despite the horrors he'd witnessed on his first trip there."

Peter reached over and hugged her, hard, and then began placing all the items on the tree—those belonging to his father first, and then his uncle's, lastly placing the replica of the NX-01 in a prominent spot where it could be seen easily. When he was done he reseated himself next to her. Several long moments of silence ticked by as the two of them drank in the beauty of what they had created.

"This was a great tradition, Grandma," Peter began softly. "Thank you for sharing it with me." For the second time that evening she draped an arm about his shoulders, tugging him close.

oooOOOooo

On Christmas morning she rose before dawn, intent on making a hearty breakfast for her grandson as she had done for her boys so many years ago, but walking to the kitchen, something on the tree caught her eye. She stepped closer, examining the new addition carefully. It was a wooden heart, cleaved in two along a jagged line, but sewn together with a delicate red ribbon.

Tears sprang to her eyes as she reached out to touch the new ornament with shaking fingers. Of all the things Peter could have given her, this was by far the best.


End file.
